Page 39 of Accidental Murder

Two hours of solid reading worked like a sedative. She passed out.

Her eyes popped open when the heater whooshed to life and Java vaulted onto the bed. He dug his claws into her stomach. She curled her arm around him, glanced at the new computer, its screen aglow with strings of commands, and drifted back to sleep.

Deep sleep.

She was in her office. Chasing a man in black. He straddled the window, ready to exit. Dennis. Richard Troy. William Norton. David. Jacob. The cat’s collar jangled. Kayla raced to the front door. Whipped it open. Peter was standing there grinning, a peacock blue scarf pulled tautly between his hands.

“No!” Kayla screamed, waking in a cold sweat. Her clothes clung to her.

The clock read two a.m. Swell.

She threw off the covers. Padded to the bathroom. Splashed her face with cold water.

“It’s no use,” she muttered.

The mirror reflected what she knew to be true. She looked like crap. Perhaps when the Maybelline people saw her, they would cancel the shoot, and she would be spared the shame of messing up. Be a model? No way. She wouldn’t fool anybody.

She returned to the bedroom and checked the computer. The program hadn’t concluded. An idea came to her, but she needed Eve’s help.

An hour later,Kayla entered American Diner. The place was empty except for a steely-haired waiter whose thickset body jiggled as he washed down the counters, and Eve. Typical Eve, she was scrubbing coffee pots while singing along to the song playing on the jukebox—Elvis’s “Jailhouse Rock.”

Kayla approached the counter. “Hey.”

Eve whirled around. “Hallelujah! I’m desperate for company. Tom, I’m taking a break.” She lowered the volume on the music, shrugged off her apron, and retrieved her pea coat. “Coffee?”

“Please. Black.”

Eve filled two mugs and steered Kayla outside to a wrought iron table. The courtyard twinkled with white lights. A crisp wind howled from one end of the square to the other. The coolness calmed Kayla.

“Sit,” Eve ordered.

Kayla obeyed. Between sips, she recounted the tragic emotional state of her uncle. Her upcoming modeling shoot. The impromptu visits by Peter and Dennis.

“I’m glad your uncle alerted the cops about Troy,” Eve said. “You didn’t like him from the get-go. But it sounds like you’re ruling out your ex.”

“Dennis could’ve attacked me tonight. He didn’t.”

“Because he thinks you’re Ashley. Get real. Be alert. I saw the way he ogled you at the memorial service. It was creepy.”

“Why would he smash the computer and steal my datebook? I keep thinking a client is the killer.”

Eve drummed the table. “Continue.”

“I want to contact each of them and say I know their secrets.”

“Do you?”

“No, but if one of them has one, and if that’s why Ashley died?—”

“Then whoever it is will come after you.”

Pent up energy propelled Kayla to her feet. She began to pace.

“How can I help?” Eve remained seated.

“Call some of them for me.”

Eve sniggered. “You want me to pretend to beyoupretending to beAshley? My therapist has a name for this. Couldn’t I be a newspaper reporter instead?” She rose and struck a pose, imaginary telephone in hand. “Hello, sir, I’m with theChronicle,and I hear you have a secret that Kayla Macintyre knew.”